Chapter Text
Bakugo crouched behind the cracked pillar, the air thick with dust and the faint smell of mildew from the abandoned mall. He pressed the comm button once to signal silence and glanced toward the second-floor railing where Todoroki was waiting, fingers twitching with that quiet itch of readiness they’d both picked up from Mirko.
They had tracked the villain to this place two hours ago. A minor-league quirk user who’d been robbing quirkless shelters for food and meds, nothing too flashy, but persistent enough to draw agency attention. Mirko had told them to observe first, act later, and Bakugo was trying to follow orders for once.
Until the explosion.
A loud, echoing boom rattled the floor beneath them, sending old glass shards from a broken skylight dancing to the tiles. Todoroki’s head snapped toward him immediately, unimpressed.
“You said you wouldn’t blow our cover.”
Bakugo glared up from his crouch, hands empty. “That wasn’t me, dumbass.”
Todoroki didn’t answer, he just kept staring like Bakugo had a second set of hands hidden behind his back, ticking like time bombs. Then another blast rang out, louder, closer, followed by a crackle of heat that was all wrong. Not the kind he made. Not his tempo, not his rhythm.
“I told you it wasn’t me,” Bakugo barked, eyes narrowing.
He stood up without thinking, ignoring Todoroki’s exasperated sigh in his ear as he moved toward one of the large window frames overlooking the open patio below. The glass had long since shattered, so he leaned on the frame carefully, scanning the space beneath them.
And froze.
A figure moved across the overgrown concrete below. Broad shoulders, combat boots, half-zipped hero jacket, gauntlets that shimmered in the dim light, and the hair... Blond, wild, too familiar, the kind of familiarity that punched him right in the gut.
Todoroki landed beside him without a word, silent for a beat before he said, “Well, either you’ve got a twin you never mentioned, or someone’s out here playing dress-up.”
Bakugo’s heart beat faster, but not in the way it usually did before a fight. This was the kind of fast that made his palms itch, because that wasn’t just someone in a Dynamight costume.
That was him.
Or at least, it looked like him. A little taller maybe, thicker in the arms, same stupid scowl, same way of walking like the ground owed him money.
“What the fuck,” he whispered, leaning closer.
Bakugo stepped back from the window, blinking hard. “Okay. I’m either dreaming, or someone’s fucking with me.”
Todoroki crossed his arms. “Could be both.”
“No, seriously.” Bakugo pointed down to the patio like Todoroki hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. “That guy, he's me. Not like me. Me me.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve been looking at my own face for eighteen years. Yeah, I’m sure.”
“So clone? Illusion quirk?” Todoroki tilted his head. “Also, if this is like a Bakugo-verse, I’m quitting,” he added flatly.
Bakugo didn’t laugh, he barely breathed, because down on the patio, the other version of him had just turned around again, and this time, he saw them. His eyes locked on the second-floor window where they stood, and the expression on his face was not smug or threatening.
It was confused.
Not the kind of confusion someone fakes either, a furrowed brow, a split-second flick of his eyes like he was trying to memorize them, maybe even processing if they were real.
Bakugo took a single step forward, lips parting, then the wall beside them exploded.
The blast came fast, no time for anything but instinct. Bakugo cursed and dove sideways, crashing through the open frame of the shattered window. He twisted midair, palms snapping up to ignite just enough of a burst to stop himself from hitting the concrete like a sack of bricks. Todoroki slid beside him, ice shooting out under his feet, curving his landing with practiced ease.
Dust clouded the air. Chunks of old drywall rained down from the upper floor.
“Are you fucking insane?” Bakugo roared, already back on his feet, ash coating his arms. He aimed the fury straight at the other him, who stood near the still-smoking remains of what used to be a wall.
Older-Bakugo, because there was no way that wasn’t him, lifted a brow, lips twitching in a grin that felt too familiar, too easy.
Then he pointed.
Bakugo turned.
Two villains stumbled out from behind what used to be a stockroom entrance, one holding a long blade made of light, the other with a distortion of air swirling around his hands like a vacuum. Both looked stunned to be exposed.
They must’ve been hiding there the whole time, waiting for them to be distracted.
“Oh,” Todoroki said, ice already gathering at his fingertips. “He wasn’t trying to kill us.”
The two villains barely had time to adjust before Todoroki iced the floor beneath them, trapping their feet in a sudden freeze that snapped up to their knees. One of them tried to cut through it with the blade of light, but the older Bakugo moved fast, his gauntlet clicked once, and a compact blast hit the villain’s wrist with just enough force to disarm without maiming.
Then, calm as hell, he turned back toward them.
“There’s two more,” he said, tilting his chin toward a busted escalator covered in vines and rust. “One’s got a heat-based quirk. The other’s the one you’re actually after, can mimic quirk signatures. That’s why you kept circling back here, right? Thought the guy had teleportation or clones? He doesn’t. He just sounds like everyone else.”
Todoroki blinked. “You got all that from one explosion?”
“No,” Older-Bakugo said, shrugging. “I’ve been here before.” Then he pointed to the far end of the food court, where shadows flickered just barely in view. “They’re hiding over there. Red jacket’s the mimic. You can take both.”
Todoroki tilted his head. “Why me?”
“Your quirk’s cleaner. Less risk of the mimic escaping if the air pressure gets destabilized. Plus, you’ve got the range.”
Bakugo couldn’t stop staring.
Same voice. Same phrasing. Even the same slightly condescending tone, but instead of it pissing him off, it just made him feel weirdly off-balance.
Todoroki, traitorous bastard, glanced between them and nodded. “I like this version of you better.”
He slid past without waiting for a reply, already forming ice at his side as he headed toward the escalators.
And Bakugo finally, finally snapped out of it, scowling. “Who the fuck are you?”
The man looked up, grinned, and said, “You.”
Bakugo threw up his hands. “What the hell does that even mean?”
Older-Bakugo rested a hand on one hip, looking him up and down like he wasn’t impressed, which only made Bakugo more annoyed. “Got hit by a quirk,” he said. “In my timeline. Stupid one, too. Not a villain or anything, just a scared kid who didn’t know what the hell they were doing. Their quirk can mess with time. Send people forward, backward, total luck of the draw.”
“And they sent you back?”
“Yeah. And not even on purpose,” he snapped, rubbing the back of his neck like he was still pissed about it. “Kid looked like they were gonna cry when I vanished.”
Bakugo blinked, processing. “You know what year this is?”
“UA. Third year. You’re eighteen, right?”
He nodded, slowly.
“Fantastic,” older him said, sarcastic and bone-tired. “That means I’ve been thrown sixteen fucking years into the past.”
Bakugo opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You’re thirty-four?” He squinted. “Fuck, that’s old.”
Older-Bakugo didn’t even flinch. “I knew I was an asshole at eighteen.”
Still, Bakugo circled him once, eyeing the slight gray at the roots, the few lines around his mouth, the better gear, the way he moved. Not like a teenager, not even like most heroes. He moved like someone who had fought a lot and survived all of it.
“I look okay for an old guy,” Bakugo admitted finally, begrudgingly.
Older-Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? That’s nice. Let me ruin it for you.”
He held up a finger. “Bad hearing. Left ear’s worse, but both are kinda shit now.”
Second finger. “Contacts. You’ll try to avoid it for years, but your vision tanks around twenty-nine.”
Third. “Your back? Wrecked. Permanent knot under your shoulder blade, no matter how much you stretch. Doing fucking pilates now.”
Bakugo stared at him in horror. “Pilates?”
“And yoga,” he said grimly. “Twice a week. Got a punch card and everything.”
There was a long pause.
Then, “When are you leaving?”
Older-Bakugo shrugged. “Uncertain. Doesn’t depend on the kid, not that we know. It’s all spontaneous. Could be hours. Worst case? A few days.”
Bakugo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuck. I guess I have to take you to see Aizawa, then.”
That actually got a reaction.
Older-Bakugo’s face shifted, subtle, but clear enough. His eyes crinkled just a bit at the corners, and his mouth pulled into a soft, amused smile.
“You still call him ‘Aizawa’,” he said, almost to himself.
Bakugo squinted. “What the hell else would I call him?”
The man just smiled wider, like he was remembering something, and didn’t answer.
Footsteps echoed behind them, and Bakugo turned just as Todoroki stepped back into view, sleeves rolled up and a faint trace of frost still clinging to his collar.
“Villains are contained,” he said, “Already called for backup. Police should be here in ten.”
He glanced between the two Bakugos, his expression flat but vaguely entertained, like he was trying not to enjoy this too much. “I’ll stay and help sort everything out here. You two should probably go solve this double Bakugo situation before one of you throws a grenade at the other.”
Bakugo grunted. “I don’t throw grenades.”
Todoroki raised an eyebrow. “You definitely do.”
Bakugo opened his mouth, then closed it, then he finally turned and stomped off instead. Older-Bakugo followed, falling into step beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. He waved lazily at Todoroki on the way out. “Nice ice work.”
“Thanks,” Todoroki replied, deadpan. “You’re my favorite now.”
Bakugo didn’t respond, he was too busy trying to figure out if punching his own future self counted as self-harm.
They left through the shattered entrance, both of them ignoring the swarm of flashing lights as the first police vehicles rolled up, sirens finally cutting off. Officers jogged inside, already moving to secure the building, none of them even blinking twice at the idea of two identical pro-heroes walking out side by side.
“You know the way back to UA?” Bakugo asked, not looking over.
Older-Bakugo scoffed. “Of course I do. It hasn’t moved.”
“Just checking.”
They didn’t talk much on the way. Too many people on the streets staring already, and Bakugo was trying not to think too hard about the way the other him walked like he owned the ground, like the city was his, and he’d memorized every crack in the sidewalk and every shift in the wind.
By the time they reached the campus gates, Bakugo had sweat prickling under his collar and an annoyed knot tightening low in his stomach. He was starting to regret not just dragging the guy into a storage closet and locking him inside.
They headed straight to the teachers’ wing, ignoring a very confused second-year support student who stopped mid-step in the hallway and whispered, “There’s two of him?” before immediately power-walking the other way.
Aizawa was at his desk, stacks of paperwork in front of him, scarf draped over the back of his chair like he’d just taken a break from actual combat to drown in bureaucracy instead. He didn’t even blink when they walked in, just looked up, blinked once, and stared at both Bakugos with the slow exhaustion of a man who had seen too much in his life to care anymore.
It was the kind of expression that said: this might as well be Thursday.
Older-Bakugo crossed his arms and gave a quick summary of what happened. The kid, the accidental quirk, the sixteen-year backslide, the “whoops I blew a hole in the wall to expose villains but didn’t mean to send my past self into a spiral” part.
Aizawa sighed like someone had just added six more pages to his already cursed paperwork. “Bakugo,” he said without looking at the younger one, “wait outside. I need to do a check-up to make sure everything’s in order.”
Bakugo frowned. “What kind of check-up?”
Aizawa still didn’t look up. “The kind that checks if your future self isn’t a villain in disguise.”
Bakugo grunted, but he knew the drill. He’d do the same thing, maybe with a bit more yelling.
He stepped outside and closed the door, then leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed tight.
It made sense, still, it sucked.
He knew himself. He could feel it, same speech patterns, same tick behind his eye, same way he cracked his knuckles when annoyed. That wasn’t a fake. That was him.
Ten long minutes passed, then the door creaked open, and Bakugo stood up straight, expecting something tense, official. Maybe a clipboard or a lecture, but what he got instead was his older self walking out next to Aizawa, both of them mid-conversation, relaxed like they were catching up over lunch. The older him was smirking. Aizawa had a cup of tea in his hand.
“...so the new agency is up in Sendai,” Older-Bakugo was saying. “Smaller than Musutafu, but cleaner. Less hero drama too.”
“Smart choice,” Aizawa replied.
Bakugo stared at them in disbelief, because they looked like friends. Like real, casual, inside-joke-having friends.
“What the fuck is happening,” Bakugo whispered to himself, horrified, and he meant it. Genuinely. From the bottom of his soul.
Aizawa finally turned toward him, back in full teacher mode. “We talked,” he said, “and decided it’s best if your future self stays on campus for now. Leaving UA could cause more unnecessary attention, especially if the press catches wind of it.”
Bakugo narrowed his eyes. “You think people wouldn’t notice two of me walking around?”
“That’s exactly why we’re keeping him inside. Less eyes here than out there.” Aizawa sipped his tea. “We’ll try to find an open room in the teacher’s wing, but if there’s nothing available tonight, he’ll stay in Aoyama’s or Midoriya’s old dorm. They’re still intact.”
Bakugo looked like someone had slapped him. “No fucking way. I’m not being his nanny.”
Older-Bakugo snorted. “I’m almost double your age, so technically, I’d be your nanny.”
Bakugo scowled. “You think you’re funny?”
“A little,” the man said, that annoyingly familiar grin curling on his mouth like it lived there now.
When did he start smiling so much?
He barely remembered how his own face felt when it wasn’t scowling or set in a glare, and yet here was this older version of him, looking relaxed and, what, charming? Confident? Like the years had somehow knocked the edges off but left all the heat behind.
It was disorienting, and vaguely insulting.
Aizawa let the silence sit for a moment before adding, “Also, don’t ask him too many questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“The kind that could mess with your timeline,” Aizawa said, with the same tone he used when scolding someone for not wearing their training gear properly. “No ‘do I become number one,’ no ‘who dies,’ no ‘what’s the stock market like in ten years.’ Got it?”
Bakugo groaned. “I wasn’t gonna ask about the stock market.”
“But still. Don’t be stupid. He shouldn’t give you answers even if you ask. And you,” he turned to the older Bakugo “shouldn’t offer anything either.”
Older-Bakugo raised both hands in mock surrender. “Wasn’t planning to. I’m not here to fix the future, just waiting for the kid to un-time me.”
Aizawa exhaled through his nose and gave a slow nod. “I’ll also talk to Sekijiro, see if he’s got some spare clothes lying around. You’re not going to be walking around in costume until this is sorted out, and I’m not giving up my clothes just for you to stretch them out.”
Older-Bakugo looked down at himself, then at Aizawa. “Yeah, I’d rip the sleeves off those.”
Bakugo’s eye twitched.
Aizawa was already halfway back to his desk, waving them off like they were a particularly boring report. “Go. Stay quiet. And try not to set anything on fire.”
They left the office together, falling into a quiet step, the hallway strangely still despite the late afternoon sun pouring in through the windows. The school was always calmer on mission days, less training noise, more people recovering or filing reports. Bakugo usually liked that, but not today.
He could feel the questions building like carbonation behind his teeth.
Did he go pro right away? Did he get better? Was Kirishima... He bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.
Older-Bakugo didn’t say anything, he just walked with his hands in his pockets like this was a casual tour of memory lane. He didn’t look uncomfortable, didn’t glance around with nostalgia or weird emotion. He just looked settled, maybe a little tired.
Bakugo hated how badly he wanted to ask, even just one thing, even something small.
They crossed into the dorms just as the main lounge came into view. The sun cast long shadows across the common room, warm light spilling over the edges of the couches, the wide windows glowing gold. For a second, it looked like peace.
That illusion died immediately when Mina screeched.
“What the...” She yelped, freezing mid-step in a hoodie two sizes too big, a half-eaten snack bar in her hand. Beside her, Jirou almost dropped her phone. Both of them stood just inside the common area, eyes bouncing between the two Bakugos like they were looking at a glitch in the matrix.
Jirou recovered first, brows furrowed, suspicious and flat. “Is this a prank? Because if this is a weird shapeshifter stunt, it’s not funny.”
Older-Bakugo blinked. “Nope. Real.”
Mina, on the other hand, had taken exactly three seconds to move from stunned to fascinated.
She ran up to Older-Bakugo with a gasp, hands flying to his arms, his shoulders, then his face like she was confirming the structure of a statue. “Holy crap, you look hot. Wait. Wait, you’re Bakugo, right? You’re like, older Bakugo?”
Bakugo was already growling. “Mina! Stop touching him!”
“I’m just checking!” She chirped, fingers still pressed to the man’s biceps. “Oh my god. Your jawline! You’ve got, like, age structure! How did this happen? Is this quirk-related? Are you staying like this? Are you single? Are you...”
“I don’t look that different,” Bakugo barked, stepping forward with an offended scowl.
Mina gave him a long, slow once-over, from his scuffed-up boots to the way his collar was half popped and crooked to the eternal wrinkle between his brows. Then she tilted her head and gave her verdict.
“Yes, you do.”
Jirou smirked behind her hand.
Older-Bakugo just smiled, like this was all deeply entertaining.
Bakugo looked between them, baffled and irritated, and maybe a little too aware of the fact that the guy he would become looked like he could star in one of those limited-series documentaries about hardened detectives with good hair.
“Don’t smile,” he snapped at his older self.
Older-Bakugo shrugged, hands still in his pockets. “Not my fault I age like a fine-ass bottle of sake.”
Mina howled, and she was still laughing like it was the best thing that had ever happened to her when footsteps echoed from the hallway, and Bakugo felt the unmistakable chill of a bad omen approaching.
Sure enough, Sero walked in, flanked by Tokoyami and Mineta, who was halfway through talking about some garbage movie when they all stopped dead in their tracks.
Sero’s eyes widened, and what came out was pure suffering. “I can’t handle two Bakugos,” he said, like he was genuinely in pain. “I can barely handle one.”
Tokoyami nodded. “This is a development that challenges reason.”
Mineta just stared, his head turning slightly between the two of them like he was trying to spot a difference on a magazine quiz. “Wait, wait, is this a sexy evil twin thing?”
Older-Bakugo looked at him with the dead expression of a man who had not mellowed out on everything, “Oh no,” he said flatly. “You still exist.”
Mineta squinted. “What does that mean?”
“Means I hated you at eighteen, and guess what?” Older-Bakugo leaned a little closer, just enough to make Mineta instinctively step back. “Still do.”
Mina coughed into her hand to hide a laugh. Jirou didn’t even try. Sero looked like he was physically restraining himself from clapping.
“I like this one,” Jirou said, pointing at the older version.
“Get in line,” Mina said, still circling him like a museum piece.
Bakugo just crossed his arms, wishing the floor would open up and swallow everyone. “Can we not turn this into a meet-and-greet?”
Sero threw his hands up. “You were the one who brought your adult self into the dorms.”
“Not my fault! He time-traveled!”
“I didn’t mean to,” older-Bakugo added, deadpan.
Mineta opened his mouth again, and Bakugo immediately pointed at him. “No. Whatever you’re about to say, shut up.”
“Damn,” Mineta whispered.
Tokoyami looked between them one more time, then simply nodded. “If he stays, we must prepare. One Bakugo is a force of nature. Two is an extinction event.”
Sero groaned again. “I’m not sleeping in this building tonight.”
Bakugo groaned miserably as Mineta started rambling again about "parallel universe rules" and asking if this meant there were infinite versions of Bakugo walking around. Without a word, Bakugo grabbed his older self by the arm, more like a hostage hand-off than anything, and dragged him toward the elevator.
Older-Bakugo didn’t resist, just followed with a shrug like he’d seen worse and probably been worse, and as soon as they stepped into the familiar hallway, Bakugo moved fast, unlocking his dorm room and yanking the door open with more force than necessary.
He shoved his older self inside and slammed the door shut before anyone else could try and turn this into another circus, “We’re staying in here until Aizawa sends more instructions,” Bakugo announced, toeing off his boots and heading straight for his desk where his spare clothes were folded on the chair.
Older-Bakugo moved without comment, lowering himself onto the desk chair, his gear creaking slightly under him. He didn’t take off everything, just unclipped his gauntlets and let them rest on the floor beside him before rolling his shoulders and leaning back like he’d done this before, sat in this exact room, probably too many times to count.
Bakugo pretended not to notice that familiarity.
He peeled off his own gauntlets and started unbuckling the top of his costume, annoyed at the way dried sweat made everything stick. He didn’t speak, and neither did his older self. They just moved around each other like a reflection with a ten-year delay. It was weirdly quiet. Not bad, just strange.
Then, the door flew open, and Bakugo didn’t need to look. He felt it before he saw it, the rush of air, the way his shoulders tensed instinctively, how the room somehow got warmer just from the presence standing in the doorway. His hands paused halfway through pulling off his shirt, and he exhaled slowly, already dreading what he’d see.
Then he turned his head, and there he was.
Kirishima.
Hair a little messy, shirt tugged on in a hurry like he’d just rushed over from the gym or training room, expression frozen in pure, wide-eyed disbelief. His mouth hung open in a perfect “o,” like his brain had just stopped buffering.
And Bakugo could see it, the exact moment Kirishima’s eyes bounced between the two of them, from him, sweaty and halfway out of his costume, to the older version of himself, relaxed and casual, still in partial gear, sitting like he owned his damn chair.
The worst part wasn’t Kirishima’s reaction, not the shock in his face, not the way his eyes bounced between the two of them like he was stuck in a dream. It wasn’t even the way his hand was still clutching the door handle like he might need the physical reminder that this was real.
No.
The worst part was himself. His older version, that smug, relaxed, emotionally well-adjusted bastard, because Bakugo turned his head, just to see if his other self was just as annoyed, just as horrified, just as overwhelmed, and instead, he saw it.
Plain as day.
Older-Bakugo was looking at Kirishima like he was the damn sun. Eyes soft, mouth pulled into the gentlest fucking curve Bakugo had ever seen on his own face, like he wanted to get up, walk over, hold his face, kiss his damn forehead.
It was open. No walls, no filters, just affection, bare and impossible to misread, like it had been there for years and got stronger every time he looked at him.
Bakugo stared, frozen, and then his stomach dropped, because that was the exact thing he had spent two whole years shoving into the darkest corner of himself. Two years of carefully managing glances, holding back words, controlling touches. Two years of training his expression into something neutral every time Kirishima laughed too loud or said his name like it meant something.
Two years of hiding it so well that not even Kaminari had called him out.
And now?
Now this asshole, this future version of him with better shoulders and slightly more wrinkles, was out here ruining all of it with one look.
Bakugo’s eye twitched. He was going to kill him.
He was actually, truly going to kill himself.
“I can’t believe Mina wasn’t lying,” Kirishima said, finally stepping into the room like his legs had just remembered how to move.
He looked between them again, still wide-eyed, still very clearly in the middle of trying to process the sight of two Bakugos in the same room, but this time his gaze lingered longer on the one sitting down, his brow furrowing with something unreadable.
Bakugo braced himself. He expected more questions, more awkward staring, maybe even the kind of curiosity that would lead to asking future-him what his quirk output was at thirty-four or if he still used his old training playlists.
Something dumb, impersonal, safe.
But Kirishima turned abruptly, red eyes locking onto him, “Katsuki, are you okay?”
Bakugo’s breath caught in his throat, because no one, not one person, had stopped and asked that yet.
Not Aizawa, not Todoroki, not Mina, not Jirou, not even the version of himself who was sitting three feet away.
Only Kirishima.
Only Kirishima, who now stepped closer with his brows drawn together, concern etched across every line of his face. He reached out without hesitation, hands finding Bakugo’s arms, fingers firm as he looked him over like he was scanning for injuries that hadn’t been mentioned. He touched his face next, gently, like he wasn’t sure if Bakugo was pale or just overwhelmed.
His thumb brushed lightly under one eye, “Did you get hit by a quirk too? Are you hurt? You’re sure this isn’t, like, messing with you somehow?”
Bakugo couldn’t answer because his entire brain short-circuited under the weight of warmth pressing into his skin and the unbearable tenderness in Kirishima’s voice. He stood frozen, eyes locked on Kirishima’s face, heart pounding hard enough to make his ribs ache.
This. This was one of the thousand and fifty-seven reasons he was so desperately in love with Kirishima.
Not the only reason, not even close, but definitely high on the list, because in the middle of the absurdity, the noise, the chaos of two versions of the same person standing in a room like someone had opened a comic book and dumped it into reality, Kirishima had looked straight past all of that and checked on him.
And he only stopped after running his hands carefully down Bakugo’s forearms, confirming there were no cuts, no burns, no signs of distress. Then, and only then, did he finally exhale, “Okay. Good. You looked kind of pale for a second. I got worried.”
Bakugo blinked, then blinked again, and absolutely refused to acknowledge the tiny sound his throat made.
“I’m fine,” Bakugo said, his voice hoarse in a way he absolutely hoped no one picked up on. “Not the worst day of my life.”
Kirishima grinned at that, all sunshine and honest teeth, like it was the best thing he’d heard all day. And maybe it was, maybe Bakugo should’ve been used to that by now, how Kirishima always reacted to him like he was worth listening to, but it still made his chest pull tight.
Then, finally, Kirishima turned his attention back to the man still lounging in Bakugo’s chair, and, like clockwork, his mouth dropped into another soft “o” of disbelief.
Bakugo watched it happen. Watched his future self watching Kirishima like the world had just walked in wearing red hair and concern and a goddamn gym shirt. That look hadn’t faded. If anything, it had softened even more, grown warmer somehow. It was so open, so unguarded, so fond that it actually hurt to look at.
“Wow,” Kirishima said, eyes widening a little. “Mina said something about you being thirty-four? You still look awesome.”
Older-Bakugo blinked, then, very pathetically, the tips of his ears went pink.
It wasn’t much, just a little flush, barely there, but Bakugo saw it, and it was worse somehow that this version of him still couldn’t handle a compliment from Kirishima without blushing like he was fifteen.
Kirishima plopped down on the edge of the bed, clearly still adjusting to the whole time-traveling-doppelgänger situation but easing into it like it wasn’t even the weirdest thing that had happened at UA.
“So,” he said, leaning forward a little, “what’s it like? I mean, being from the future? You’re not, like, secretly here to stop a villain or something, right?”
Older-Bakugo gave a tired shrug, lips twitching. “Nah. Just here by accident. Got hit by a kid with a time quirk. Whole thing was an accident. Nothing epic.”
“That’s so wild,” Kirishima said, eyes bright. “You’re handling it really well though.”
Older-Bakugo looked at him for a moment, like he was holding back something, but instead of saying it, he just smiled again. “Not the first weird week I’ve had.”
Kirishima laughed, “Man, future you is really chill.”
Kirishima leaned back on the edge of the bed, hands bracing behind him, his smile growing crooked with something playful. “Okay, I know I could be asking serious stuff right now. Like life-altering, timeline-shattering stuff. But I’m not gonna. I’m gonna ask the dumbest questions I can think of.”
Older-Bakugo, still slouched comfortably in the desk chair, tilted his head with amusement sparking just behind his eyes. “Hit me.”
Kirishima lit up, like this was suddenly the most exciting thing that had happened all day. “Do they still make that spicy wasabi seaweed chips we like?”
“Still do. Limited run every winter now. You stock up in December like it’s the apocalypse.”
Kirishima laughed, chest shaking a little as he grinned. “Hell yeah. I knew they’d survive.” He paused dramatically. “Okay, okay. Did Crimson Riot ever release another documentary?”
“He did,” older-Bakugo said, the reply coming too fast, too certain. “Talks a lot slower now, but you still cried.”
Kirishima snorted, a hand flying up to cover his face. “Shit, of course I did.” He lowered it slowly, eyes still crinkled at the corners, glowing with curiosity. “Is that ramen place still open? You know the one. The tiny one with the weird stairs and the old lady who yells at people if they slurp too loud.”
Older-Bakugo actually chuckled. A low, quiet sound that pulled at his features in a way that made Bakugo stare, because he didn’t remember ever laughing like that. Not that easily.
“It’s still open,” he said, softer now. “She still yells at people. You tip her too much and she gives you free dumplings.”
Kirishima looked so damn pleased, like these answers were better than any future secrets or epic revelations. Just hearing about chips, documentaries, ramen, like he wanted to make sure all the small good things survived.
And the way older-Bakugo answered, every single time, like of course he remembered those details. Like they weren’t dumb at all. Like they were etched into the side of his brain in permanent ink. He looked at Kirishima like it was impossible not to remember those things, because every one of them had come with him.
Bakugo swallowed hard.
It was unbearable, watching it. Watching himself love someone so openly. No armor, no bite, no effort to hide it. Just a man sitting across from the person he’d clearly loved for almost twenty goddamn years, still looking at him like he was the best part of his week.
And Kirishima, still grinning, leaned forward just a little, rubbing the back of his neck in that sheepish way he always did when he was about to say something that mattered a bit more than he let on. “Okay, last one, I swear. Just be honest, alright?”
Older-Bakugo nodded, patient, eyes warm.
Kirishima’s voice dropped, just a touch. “Am I a cool hero? In the future, I mean?”
Bakugo barely had time to brace himself, because the look that passed over older-Bakugo’s face was so soft it felt like getting hit in the chest. His whole expression went affectionate in a way that didn’t need words, and then he nodded, once, like it was obvious. Like it had never been in question.
“The coolest,” he said, “You’re everything you wanted to be, and then some.”
Kirishima’s eyes widened just a little before he smiled again, smaller now, the kind that sat deeper. He looked proud, a little emotional, even.
Older-Bakugo leaned forward in the chair slightly, arms resting on his knees, gaze never once leaving him. And then, like he’d been waiting years to say it out loud, he kept going, “You’re the kind of hero old women stop on the street to share their tangerines with because you once helped them carry their supermarket bags. They remember. They always remember.”
The redhead blinked, a surprised laugh caught in his throat, but older-Bakugo wasn’t done, “Kids love you so much, they cry if their parents don’t let them run up to talk to you. Doesn’t matter if they’re in a rush or stuck inside the car at a red light, if they see you, they lose their minds. And there are teenagers dying their hair red because of you. So many that stores literally put ‘sold out, red hair dye’ signs in the windows. I’ve seen it. And your fanbase? Massive,” older-Bakugo added, tone lighter now, teasing, but still undeniably warm. “Huge male fanbase, too. Guys think you’re the coolest thing ever. You throw one punch and they’re buying your posters in bulk.”
Kirishima finally laughed, breathless, ducking his head like he couldn’t look at either of them for a second. “No way. That can’t be real.”
“It is,” older-Bakugo said, with no hesitation. “I wouldn’t lie about you.”
And Bakugo, eighteen, sweaty, still standing in the middle of his own room, wanted to scream, because the way his future self looked at Kirishima just then, like he was the beginning and end of every good thing in his life, like of course he remembered all those details, like there was no universe where he wouldn’t, it was unbearable.
It was too much.
Bakugo couldn’t take the warm tone, the goddamn twinkle in future-his eyes, the way Kirishima was looking down at his own lap like he didn’t know what to do with all that praise anymore, so he did the only thing he could think of, “We should go have dinner,” he blurted, tone flat.
Kirishima blinked, clearly pulled out of the moment, looking up at him with wide eyes before shifting his gaze between them again.
“Oh, right, yeah. You must be hungry,” he said quickly, then rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh, went to that place earlier, the one that sells oyakodon, the one you like. I figured you'd be back late from patrol, so I bought dinner for us, but I only got two portions.”
He winced, guilt creeping into his expression like he'd just committed a crime instead of accidentally not preparing for a surprise second version of Bakugo to show up from another decade.
“You can have my portion, though,” he added, glancing shyly toward the older Bakugo, voice quiet and sincere in that way that always killed Bakugo dead where he stood. “It’s fine. I’m not even that hungry.”
It wasn’t even his fault, but the sadness in his voice made it sound like he’d personally failed both versions of Bakugo. Like he would’ve gladly bought out the entire restaurant if he’d known this ridiculous, impossible day was going to happen.
And the worst part?
Older-Bakugo looked like he was ready to cry over it.
He sat up straighter, mouth opening to probably say something noble or self-sacrificing or disgustingly romantic, and Bakugo had to cut in right now before either of them started offering up blood or internal organs.
“No one’s giving up anything,” he said, already walking toward the door. “We’ll figure it out.”
The only good thing about having a dorm full of nosy, hyperactive classmates was that the second they walked into the common room, older-Bakugo was immediately swarmed.
Mina shouted, “He’s back!” like she was announcing a pop star. Kaminari somehow materialized from thin air, already mid-question, even Ojiro was there, nodding politely and offering him a juice box for some reason.
Bakugo barely had time to blink before they’d dragged older-him to the biggest table, crowding around like he was a celebrity on press tour. And the bastard, of course, handled it like it was normal. No irritation, no scowling, just small smirks and snarky replies that made people laugh, like he wasn’t one sarcastic comment away from reciting a full sonnet to Kirishima if someone gave him a candle and a dramatic spotlight.
So at least that disaster was avoided.
And Kirishima, thankfully, had followed him, not the version of him everyone was fawning over. He sat beside Bakugo on one of the smaller couches near the kitchen counter, tray balanced on his lap, chopsticks already in hand, not trying to ask questions, just there.
“So,” Kirishima said, “I accidentally got cornered by Satou today, and he made me taste-test a protein cake he’s working on. I think I lost a year of my life. It was so dense it nearly took me out on the first bite.”
“That’s what you get for going into the kitchen unguarded.”
Kirishima grinned, clearly encouraged. “I should’ve known better, but he said it was inspired by you. Called it the ‘Explosion Bar.’”
Bakugo gave him a long stare.
“Yeah,” Kirishima said, trying not to laugh. “Exactly that look. I told him it might be a choking hazard. He said, and I quote, ‘That’s part of the experience.’”
Bakugo shook his head, but his shoulders had already relaxed a little. The noise from the other side of the room became background static, older-him answering questions, Kaminari shrieking about something dramatic, Mina trying to touch his biceps again.
But Kirishima didn’t look at them.
He looked at him.
And he just kept talking, soft, light things, stories from the day, small complaints about homework, a funny thing that happened during training. He didn’t ask how Bakugo was feeling, didn’t press, he just was there, next to him.
They stayed like that through the meal, Kirishima beside him, anchoring Bakugo in the quiet rhythm of normal conversation while chaos buzzed around the room. It worked, somehow. His pulse slowed, his jaw unclenched, and for the first time since spotting his own damn face through a second-story window, he could breathe without the urge to yell at someone.
They finished eating at the same time, trays balanced on their knees, a comfortable lull settling between them, and then, like clockwork, of course Aizawa appeared.
He materialized at the entrance to the common room, looking exactly as exhausted as Bakugo felt. He didn’t even raise his voice, he just gave the room one long scan before his gaze locked on the older Bakugo.
“Dynamight,” he said, “With me.”
The room collectively hushed, a few people still mid-laugh from whatever joke older-Bakugo had just made, but the man didn’t miss a beat. He stood up with that same easy confidence, brushing his hands off on his pants before following Aizawa to the far corner, near the stairwell.
Bakugo watched, unease crawling back under his skin.
He could barely make out what was being said, but then Aizawa reached into a plastic bag and handed over three things: a folded pillow, a neatly rolled duvet, and what looked like a drawstring bag of basic overnight stuff.
Bakugo’s heart dropped.
He was staying.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, Aizawa had warned them this could last hours, maybe days, but something about seeing the damn pillow made it real in a way nothing else had.
Kirishima noticed.
“Looks like he’s sleeping over, huh?” He said gently, glancing toward the exchange with a small smile, completely unaware of the existential spiral happening two inches to his left.
Bakugo barely nodded, because apparently, his new reality was this: he was now cohabitating with the walking, talking, emotionally stable version of himself. The one who smiled easily, who laughed with their friends, who looked at Kirishima like he was the center of every memory worth keeping.
And that sounded like his worst nightmare, one he hadn’t known existed until a few hours ago.
Bakugo stood, grabbing his tray and the empty dishes stacked beside it, ignoring the way his stomach twisted the moment older-him accepted the pillow and bag from Aizawa with an easy nod.
Kirishima moved with him, instinctively, “I’ll help with the dishes,” he said, already reaching to grab the rest.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know,” Kirishima replied, smiling as he followed him into the kitchen.
It was quiet there. Not silent, the hum of the fridge, the occasional muffled shout from the common room, but quieter. Bakugo rolled up his sleeves and started rinsing, focusing on the warm water, the motion of it, the clink of plates hitting the bottom of the sink. He passed them to Kirishima without looking up, grateful for the rhythm of it.
Of course, it couldn’t last.
Older-Bakugo stepped into the kitchen a minute later, walking a little slower now, barefoot, holding the pillow and bag under one arm. His shirt was half untucked, and the relaxed look on his face made Bakugo want to put his own head in the sink.
“Hey,” older-him said, easy. “So, Shota said I’ll be here for the night. Guess that’s not surprising.”
Bakugo grunted, still scrubbing.
“I’ll stay out of the way,” he added, looking between them like he meant it. “Won’t crash any conversations or get too chatty with your friends. I already traumatized Sero enough for one night.”
Kirishima laughed a little, and Bakugo hated how warm it sounded.
Then older-Bakugo stepped closer, resting the bag near the pantry. “Can I borrow your shampoo and body wash when I shower? Shota only gave me the basics.”
Bakugo paused, a plate halfway to rinse. He didn’t look over, just said, “Yeah, whatever,” and passed it to Kirishima.
And in that brief pause, somewhere between soap and rinse, he thought, When the hell did I become this guy?
Someone calm, polite, who asked before using soap.
Kirishima passed the towel over a drying bowl, humming softly to himself, and Bakugo shook it off, focused on the last glass in the sink. They worked until the counters were wiped clean and the last plate was stacked to dry.
Bakugo dried his hands on a kitchen towel, avoiding eye contact, then he turned toward the hallway, older-Bakugo already moving behind him, bag slung over one shoulder.
“Talk to you later?” He asked, quietly, to Kirishima, words tossed back over his shoulder, casual, like they didn’t mean everything.
Kirishima looked up, caught the glance, and smiled. “Yeah. Of course.”
And then Bakugo walked out, heart pounding like an idiot, followed by the one person he couldn’t escape, even in his own damn body.
The shared bathroom was empty, lights were dim, reflecting off the tiled floor and fogged windows. The air already smelled faintly of soap and steam from someone else who’d been here earlier, but now it was just them.
Bakugo walked ahead, still trying to pretend like this wasn’t the weirdest night of his life, and dropped his towel on one of the wooden stools near the scrubbing area. The bathroom was traditional, wood slats, clean stone, a row of shower heads along one wall and the deep, communal soaking tub in the back, still empty.
Older-Bakugo was already undressing, completely unbothered as he turned the water on, letting it heat up with one hand while reaching for the shampoo with the other. And Bakugo, despite himself, looked.
He didn’t mean to, but he looked at the body he would have in sixteen years. Broad shoulders, same scar under the ribs, same tattoo of a burn on his hip that never fully faded, but it also wasn’t.
There were more scars now, one down the back of the calf, a new one across the collarbone, tiny burn marks along his arms that looked older than some of his classmates. His muscles were thicker, more defined in ways Bakugo hadn’t realized yet he could even change. His stance had shifted too, same posture, but the weight sat differently.
Bakugo stared too long, and finally asked quietly, “Can you not do that?”
Older-Bakugo paused, hand mid-lather in his hair, glancing back. “You told me I could use your shampoo.”
“I’m not talking about that,” he snapped, gripping the edge of the stool with wet fingers. “Fuck. I’m talking about the way you talk to Eijiro.”
Older-Bakugo didn’t move for a moment, just stood there, water trailing down his back, still enough that Bakugo thought for a second he wasn’t going to respond, but then he turned, gaze landing on him like he’d expected this from the beginning.
“Sorry,” he said, and then, after a pause, he smiled. “It’s weird, being back.” He turned back to rinse the soap from his hair. “I forgot how it felt, being emotionally constipated like that.”
It wasn’t a jab. Not mean, just nostalgic. A little sad, like he was remembering a version of himself he hadn’t thought about in years.
Bakugo sat on the stool, arms resting over his knees, eyes fixed on the tile between his feet. The steam curled around their ankles, softening everything, but the silence between them felt hard.
He wasn’t even sure why he said it, only that it slipped out before he could catch it, “What happened to you?” He asked, voice low. “Why are you so different?”
There was a pause, then the sound of water being turned off, a towel dragged roughly over wet hair. A short laugh, dry and a little self-deprecating.
“Tons of therapy,” older-Bakugo said, like it was obvious. “Meds too. They help a lot. You talk to a psychiatrist every fifteen days.”
Bakugo blinked, mouth parting slightly. No one had ever said it that plainly before, not about him. Not like it was just a fact, like brushing teeth, like something normal people did.
Older-Bakugo didn’t look at him right away, he just stood there for a second, towel over his shoulders, arms loose at his sides. Then he went quiet again, like something was sitting heavy on the back of his tongue.
And eventually, he said it anyway, “Eijiro happened too.”
Bakugo froze.
“You might not realize it now,” older-him went on, not even looking for a reaction, just speaking, “but you already changed a lot from when you were fifteen. A lot. And a good part of that was because of him.”
He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers like he was remembering something that still sat in the shape of his palms.
“That doesn’t change. Not even once. You keep trying to get better, and mostly because of him.”
Bakugo didn’t know what to say, because that sounded too big, too real, too much like something he already knew and had tried to bury in the back of his throat for years.
He sat there, skin hot from the steam, from the words, from the fact that it was himself saying it out loud, and the only thing louder than that truth was his heartbeat.
Bakugo didn’t look up, he just kept his gaze on the floor, hands clasped loosely between his knees, heartbeat still too loud in his ears. The confession had settled somewhere in his chest, and then, quietly, almost like he was asking someone else’s question, he said, “Does he know?”
Older-Bakugo didn’t respond right away.
Bakugo heard the faint sound of water shifting in the pipes, the creak of wood under bare feet, and then nothing, just silence again, thoughtful, measured, like he was weighing the weight of each word before letting it exist.
Finally, older-Bakugo exhaled.
“He does.”
Bakugo nodded slowly, “Is he okay with that?”
Older-Bakugo didn’t hesitate this time. “It’s Eijiro.” That alone almost answered everything, but he went on anyway, softer now, “You know him. You know he’d never treat you differently because of who you are or what you feel. That’s another thing that won’t change.”
Bakugo stayed still, breathing through the steam.
The weight of the answer, the finality of it, sat deep in his chest. Not painful exactly, just heavy, like it had been there for years, and finally someone gave it a name, and the fact that it had come from his own mouth, from a version of him who had already lived through the mess and the silence and the fear, it made it harder to pretend it was some distant, unreachable thing.
Eventually, he moved. Picked up the washcloth, the soap, scrubbed himself clean like muscle memory. Neither of them spoke again. Older-Bakugo was quiet beside him, not awkward, just present, like he understood the silence needed to stay this time.
When they finished, they wrapped towels around their waists and gathered their things. They slid the door open and stepped into the cooler air of the hallway, barefoot, hair damp, steps quiet on the floor, and that’s exactly when the door creaked open on the other side.
Kirishima’s voice came first, “I’m telling you, Denki, if you just washed your gear instead of pretending it doesn’t smell...”
Then he stopped, mid-sentence, because there they were.
Two Bakugos. Two versions of the same boy, both dripping water, both shirtless, both very obviously just out of the bath, towels slung low around their hips. The steam still clung to their skin.
Kaminari blinked, then grinned, “Okay,” he said, eyes darting between them, “so this is either a weird fever dream or the beginning of somebody’s very specific fantasy.”
Bakugo groaned, glaring. “You’re gonna die here.”
But he didn’t yell it, not when his eyes flicked back to Kirishima, who, despite having seen Bakugo shirtless more times than he could probably count, was blushing.
A faint, rising red climbing up his neck to the tips of his ears, and he was trying so hard not to look at them, eyes skittering to the ceiling, to the wall, to Kaminari’s shoulder, literally anywhere but at the Bakugos standing there.
And then, of course, older-Bakugo chuckled, the kind of laugh that had history behind it, “I know exactly what your fantasy is,” he said, not even bothering to hide the smirk aimed at the other blonde.
Kaminari’s grin froze. “What do you mean by that?”
Older-Bakugo just shrugged, all smug, walking past them with an unbothered wave of his hand like he hadn’t just planted a psychological landmine.
Kaminari blinked after him, eyes wide. “Wait, what does he mean by that? No, seriously. What the hell does he mean by that?!”
Bakugo rolled his eyes and kept walking, towel still knotted at his hip, ignoring the way Kirishima tried to hide his face with the edge of his sleeve like it could mask the burning in his cheeks.
Back in the bedroom, they both changed quietly.
Bakugo tugged on a loose t-shirt and old sweatpants, towel forgotten at the foot of his bed. After folding his dirty clothes into a rough pile, older-Bakugo grabbed the pillow Aizawa had given him, slinging it under one arm along with the drawstring bag and the folded duvet. His shirt clung slightly at the collar from his still-damp hair, and for a second, he looked more like an older brother than anything else.
“I’m gonna crash,” he said casually, shifting the pillow to his other arm. “Probably won’t even hear the alarms if they go off.”
Bakugo nodded once, arms crossed, half-sitting on the edge of the bed, but just before the door opened, before older-him could step through it, he asked something that had been sitting at the back of his throat all night.
“Are you happy?”
Older-Bakugo stilled.
He didn’t turn all the way around, just glanced back over his shoulder, one hand still on the doorframe, and when he smiled, it was a real one.
“I’m so happy that every day I wake up thinking I’m the luckiest fucking bastard alive.”
And then he was gone, door clicking shut behind him.
Bakugo stayed there, in the middle of his bedroom, staring at the spot where his older self had stood just seconds before. The room felt too still, too full and too empty all at once.
His heart was beating too fast, but somewhere, deep in that whirlwind, a thought settled, so it’s possible.
Bakugo lay down slowly, sheets cool against his skin, the faint scent of soap clinging to his hair. The room was dark now, only the silver light of the moon slipping through the window and stretching pale lines across the floor. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, mostly out of habit, and blinked at the soft glow of the screen.
There was a message.
Eijiro: can i go to yours?
He didn’t even hesitate.
yes.
He put the phone down, heart picking up that annoyingly familiar rhythm.
It hadn’t even been a full minute before the door creaked open. Kirishima slipped inside like he’d done it a thousand times, not even glancing around to check if older-Bakugo was there. He didn’t hover by the doorway, didn’t ask permission again, he just walked over, dropped onto the bed near Bakugo’s feet, and sat cross-legged on the mattress, facing him.
The moonlight caught his profile, and Bakugo didn’t think he’d ever be able to breathe normally around him again.
Kirishima leaned back on his hands, grinning. “From zero to ten,” he whispered, “how crazy is it to see your old self?”
Bakugo huffed softly, turning onto his side, cheek half-squished into the pillow. “Twelve.”
Kirishima stifled a laugh. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair. He’s kind of weirdly cool, though.”
“He’s me. ”
“Exactly.”
They fell into a soft quiet after that, whispering, even if there was no one to wake. Their voices didn’t need to be louder than the rustle of the sheets or the breeze sliding in through the cracked window.
“I’m still trying to process the whole ‘he got hit by a time quirk and landed in our dorm’ thing,” Kirishima said, lying back now, arms folded behind his head. “You know he answered every single one of Kaminari’s questions?”
Bakugo rolled his eyes. “Of course he did.”
Kirishima laughed under his breath, his smile easy, like he’d been waiting for Bakugo’s sarcasm to show up again. “Honestly? Kaminari asked him if flying hoverboards are real yet.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said yes, and then walked away without explaining.”
Bakugo blinked. “Asshole.”
“Right?” Kirishima grinned. “Kaminari’s been spiraling ever since. He’s convinced there’s a whole secret line of hero tech we’re not cool enough to know about yet.”
“Good,” Bakugo said, turning onto his back. “He deserves to suffer.”
“You’re so mean.”
“He deserves it more when he says shit like ‘Bakugo Prime’ and ‘Bakugo Classic.’”
“Oh god, I heard that too.” Kirishima laughed again, covering his face for a second like the memory physically hurt. “He also tried to call you ‘Bakugo Lite.’”
Bakugo groaned into his pillow. “If I kill him, it’s a mercy.”
“You’ll have to fight your future self for it. I think they actually kinda bonded.”
Bakugo turned his head to stare at him, “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
They went quiet again, the silence comfortable, stretched between them like a blanket.
Bakugo sighed, “I hate him.”
Kirishima smiled, “You will literally become him.”
“Exactly.”
That got another laugh, quieter this time, warmer.
They didn’t say anything else for a while. Kirishima’s breathing evened out beside him, and Bakugo let his own eyes close for a second, just listening. The moonlight shifted on the walls, and for just a moment, Bakugo let himself pretend things could stay like this a little longer.
Just like this.
Whispers and warm air and Kirishima’s laugh.
And when Bakugo woke up hours later, the room was filled with pale morning light, the kind that slid soft and golden through the blinds, catching in corners, he saw him.
Kirishima.
Still there.
Stretched out beside him, half on top of the blanket, limbs in every direction, completely dead to the world. His red hair was a mess, sticking out in about twelve different angles, some of it stuck to his cheek, the rest fanned across Bakugo’s pillow like wildfire. His mouth was slightly open, a thin trail of drool creeping onto the fabric, and he was breathing through his nose like the most peaceful, oblivious human on the planet.
Bakugo just stared at him for a few seconds, heart a little too full, a little too quiet. Kirishima radiated warmth, like he was his own tiny sun, even though he wasn’t under the blanket. And he couldn’t stop looking at the way his lashes rested against his cheeks, at the freckle near his jaw that he’d never really noticed before, at how soft everything about him seemed in sleep.
A knock came at the door.
Bakugo tensed, immediately glaring toward it like that would be enough to ward off whoever was on the other side. He stayed completely silent, hoping they’d go away. He didn’t want anyone walking in and seeing Kirishima like this, sprawled out on his bed, in his space. Because it was perfect, quiet, his.
But the door creaked open anyway, and older-Bakugo stepped in.
He didn’t speak at first, just paused by the door, taking one look at Kirishima drooling peacefully into Bakugo’s pillow, and then he smiled.
“Figured I’d come let you know I was still here before you heard from someone else and freaked out,” he whispered.
Bakugo sighed. “Thanks for your fucking act of public service.”
Older-Bakugo smirked. “You’re welcome.”
And still, his eyes lingered on Kirishima, on the way he slept so close, so naturally, like it had always been this way.
Bakugo hated how much of himself he saw in that look, and maybe, a little, he hated how much he understood it.
Older-Bakugo glanced once more toward the bed, still wearing that annoyingly fond expression, then adjusted the towel slung over his shoulder.
“I’m gonna hit the gym,” he said softly, stepping back toward the hallway. “Try not to kill anyone before I’m back.”
And with that, he disappeared, door closing behind him with a gentle click.
Bakugo stayed still for a beat longer, watching the space the man had just left, then sighed and turned back to the mess of red hair beside him, “Eijiro,” he mumbled, nudging a shoulder. “Oi. Rise and shine.”
Kirishima shifted, smushed his face deeper into the pillow, and let out something between a sigh and a whimper, like waking up was the cruelest betrayal imaginable. He blinked slowly, eyes unfocused, mouth slightly parted.
“Hi,” Kirishima whispered, groggy and confused.
Bakugo’s chest did something unfortunate.
“Hi.” He whispered back.
The redhead yawned so hard it made his jaw pop, then stretched like a cat, arms reaching over his head, shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of his stomach. He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl as he curled forward and sat up on the bed, rubbing at his face with both hands.
His hair was even wilder now, sticking up in places it physically shouldn’t be able to, completely flattened in others.
Bakugo stared, absolutely doomed.
“Think we can have eggs for breakfast?” Kirishima mumbled, still not fully awake, eyes half-lidded.
“You just woke up and you’re already thinking about food?”
“Yes,” Kirishima said with complete conviction. “I had this dream where I was running late for patrol, and you wouldn’t let me leave until I ate a full breakfast. And you made eggs. Like, really good ones. And I got mad because I was in a hurry, but then I cried because they were amazing.”
Bakugo stared at him.
Kirishima blinked again. “So yeah. Eggs?”
As if Bakugo would ever say no to him.
He rolled his eyes, whispered something about dream logic being bullshit, and stood up anyway, ruffling his own hair as he padded to the door. Kirishima beamed at his retreating back, still sitting on the bed like the embodiment of sunshine, legs dangling lazily over the side.
Bakugo made his way into the kitchen and pulled out the pan with more determination than anyone had ever put into making eggs. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. He cracked them carefully, added just the right amount of seasoning, a bit of butter, a touch of soy sauce. Scrambled them gently over low heat like some kind of domestic god until they were soft, creamy, and looked so good it pissed him off.
By the time Kirishima wandered into the kitchen, hair brushed back but still criminally messy, Bakugo had already plated everything and poured him a glass of juice. Kirishima sat down, grinning like he’d just been handed a gift from heaven.
“Man,” he said through a mouthful. “These are amazing. Like, they taste like victory.”
Bakugo just grunted and sipped his own tea, pretending he wasn’t basking in it, that’s when the front door swung open and older-Bakugo strolled in, toweling off sweat, chatting beside Todoroki of all people, who was nodding seriously.
“Cold ceramic?” Todoroki said, curious. “How do you shape it without cracking?”
“It’s all about pressure, you’ve got to keep your hands cold, and it takes forever to learn, but older-you have the patience of a monk, so...”
They stepped into the kitchen, and older-Bakugo’s gaze immediately found the two of them at the table. His mouth curved, “Good morning.”
“You’re still here?” Kirishima asked, mid-chew. He swallowed quickly, wiped at his mouth, and brightened. “Think you can show us some of your new movements?”
Then, instantly, he froze, panic crept up his face like a rising tide.
“I mean, wait, maybe you can’t, right? That would be a spoiler? Or a time-travel paradox thing? I don’t wanna break the future or whatever...”
Older-Bakugo laughed, leaning against the counter. “Fuck, I forgot how adorable you were when you were younger.” Kirishima immediately went red from his ears to his neck, half hiding behind his juice glass like that would do anything at all, but before he could stammer out a response, older-Bakugo added, casually, “Yeah, I can show you a few. Nothing too elaborate, though. Wouldn’t want to ruin the mystery.”
Later, Bakugo didn’t follow them outside.
As soon as older-him agreed to show off whatever future shit he had in his arsenal, Kirishima lit up like a damn festival lantern, and the others, of course, jumped at the chance to watch.
Bakugo stood, stretched his arms overhead with a crack of his back, and made a decision.
Nope.
He wasn’t doing that.
He wasn’t going to stand there watching himself throw out fancy new moves, flashy upgrades, all that fine-tuned technique earned over the next sixteen years. It wasn’t insecurity, exactly. It was just, well, he wanted to get there on his own. Earn it. Every scar, every improvement, every step, and seeing it all laid out ahead of him like some kind of cheat sheet felt wrong.
So instead, he grabbed a towel, said something about needing a workout, and headed to the gym.
It was mostly empty this time of morning, just the low hum of the air system and the distant clang of weights from someone else training upstairs. Bakugo tuned it all out. He wrapped his hands, hit the bag, pushed himself until the burn in his arms drowned out the hum in his head.
It felt good, just him and his breath and the sharp rhythm of contact.
When he returned to the dorms nearly two hours later, his shirt damp and clinging to his back, the common room was buzzing again. People had clearly just come back inside, voices excited, everyone talking over each other.
Mina was in the middle of describing something to Iida, her hands flailing. “And then he flipped, like, mid-air, no boost! Just pure control!”
“He used the recoil from the first blast to redirect mid-spin,” Todoroki added, nodding. “It was elegant.”
Sero turned when he saw him. “Dude, you were nuts.”
Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t there.”
“You will be,” Kaminari said, eyes wide. “Eventually. And, bro, you're gonna be so cool. ”
Bakugo rolled his eyes, walking past them toward the stairs, towel around his neck. “I’m already cool.”
“Yeah,” Mina called after him, grinning. “But you’re gonna be terrifyingly cool.”
Bakugo didn’t say anything, he just kept walking, letting the buzz fade behind him.
The rest of the morning passed in a haze of background noise and soft dorm sounds, someone laughing too loud upstairs, a kettle whistling in the kitchen, the muffled thud of someone trying (and probably failing) to land a backflip in the common room. It was a free day, no training, no patrols, and Bakugo, now freshly showered and wearing a loose shirt and sweatpants, made the rare decision to enjoy the quiet.
He grabbed his half-read book and settled onto the couch in the corner of the lounge, tucking his feet up beside him. The sun filtered in warm through the windows, and for once, the dorm didn’t feel like it was vibrating with chaos.
He flipped open the pages, found the paragraph he’d marked, and tried to focus. He had a paper due for Heroics Strategy, and while most of the others were putting it off, Bakugo had already written half of it. He just wanted to finish the chapter before putting down his conclusions.
Ten pages in, there was a shift in the cushions beside him.
He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
Older-Bakugo sat beside him without asking, without making a sound beyond a quiet exhale. He smelled like fresh air and shampoo, and he slouched just enough to look comfortable, arms resting on the back of the couch like he had nowhere else to be.
“What’re you reading?” He asked after a few seconds, voice low.
Bakugo turned the book slightly in his hand so he could see the title. “ Tactical Decision-Making in Quirk-Heavy Environments. For a paper.”
“God, I remember that one,” older-him said, smirking. “Dry as hell but solid points. You quoting Dr. Nishimura?”
Bakugo nodded.
“Smart. Just don’t write it like you’re yelling at the professor.”
“I don’t.”
Older-Bakugo tilted his head with a look that said you absolutely do, but he didn’t push it.
They sat in a rare, easy silence for a moment, then Bakugo closed the book over his finger and glanced sideways. “So, you really gonna do ceramic with Todoroki?”
Older-Bakugo shrugged, lips quirking. “Yeah, why not? It’s relaxing. Older him’s into it. Makes these cool-ass ice-bowls that look like glass. You’d be surprised how chill he is.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Older-Bakugo chuckled, then leaned back again, gaze drifting toward the window. “This place hasn’t changed much. Still smells like leftover curry and gym socks.”
Bakugo snorted. “You miss it?”
“Sometimes, but not in the way people think. I don’t miss the dorms or the training drills or the noise. I miss being around people who didn’t expect me to have all the answers.”
Bakugo didn’t look up from the book when he spoke next. His voice was low, almost cautious, “Are they okay? Our parents?”
Older-Bakugo didn’t answer right away, he shifted, as if weighing how much to say, but when he finally spoke, there was no hesitation, just warmth. “Yeah. They’re good. They finally retired. Took ‘em long enough.”
Bakugo blinked and glanced over.
“Mom decided she wants to travel the world. She’s in Rio de Janeiro right now with Dad. Sends me so many photos every day I have to clear my agenda every few days just to keep up. They’re going to Chile next.”
Bakugo blinked again, trying to picture his mother surrounded by penguins, and the image nearly broke his brain.
Older-Bakugo smirked like he could read his mind. “Dad wants to see Rockhopper.”
“The penguin?” Bakugo said, skeptical.
“Yeah,” his older self said, stretching his legs out. “Says it looks like it’s mad at everything. Thought it’d be poetic.”
Bakugo snorted, shaking his head. “He’s so weird.”
Older-Bakugo just nodded sagely. “Yeah. You get it from him.”
They lapsed into silence again, the book still open in Bakugo’s lap, long forgotten. He stared down at the page, then said, without lifting his gaze, “What about Deku?”
Older-Bakugo hummed like it was the easiest answer in the world. “He’s good. A really good teacher, actually. You wouldn’t believe how many nerds worship the ground he walks on.”
Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “I would.”
Older-Bakugo laughed under his breath. “We go out sometimes. Eat, gossip about hero scandals, talk shit about bad costume designs. He still does that thing where he overthinks everything, but he’s okay. You don’t have to worry. He’s fine.”
Bakugo nodded, swallowing the relief that crept up his throat before it could show.
And then, after a beat, after thinking he wasn’t going to say it at all, he did, “Eijiro... He’s alive, right?”
Older-Bakugo didn’t answer immediately, instead, he stood up, spine cracking faintly as he stretched his arms overhead. Then he looked down at him, the sharpest version of that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, a glint in his eye that was so him it almost hurt.
“You think I’d let something bad ever happen to him?”
Bakugo opened his mouth to answer, but then he saw it. As his older self lowered his arms, towel slipping from his shoulder, the light caught a glint of metal... A golden wedding band.
Right hand. Ring finger. Shining quietly, like it had always been there.
Bakugo’s breath hitched.
Older-Bakugo followed his gaze, then looked back at him with a grin that held no mockery, just fondness. History. Love.
“Well,” he said, smiling, “it took you long enough.”
Bakugo’s heart was somewhere between his throat and the pit of his stomach, a thousand questions trying to crawl out of his mouth at once, but before he could even get the first word out, blink.
Older-Bakugo vanished.
No dramatic flash of light, just there one second, gone the next.
The empty space beside him still held the faintest warmth, like the air hadn’t caught up to the loss yet.
Bakugo stared, stunned, heart thudding in his ears, and all he could think was: what the fuck?
Bakugo was still staring at the empty space beside him when the door creaked open again, breaking the silence like a ripple in still water. His heart hadn’t quite slowed down, his brain was still trying to reboot, and the only thing grounding him was the weight of the book still resting, closed now, on his lap.
Kirishima walked in first, bright-eyed and slightly windblown, his sleeves pushed up like he’d been outside sparring or laughing too hard. Following close behind was Uraraka, dressed in travel gear, duffel slung across her shoulder and hair pulled up like she’d just come back from a patrol in another city, which, judging by the way she was ranting, she definitely had.
“Wait, you’re kidding!” She groaned as soon as Bakugo told them what just happened, her voice carrying easily across the room. “You’re telling me I missed future you? The cool, older, well-adjusted Bakugo?”
Bakugo blinked slowly, barely registering the complaint.
She stomped over dramatically and flopped down in one of the nearby chairs, “I’ve been gone two days! And this happens?! I was gone for, like, two days!”
Kirishima chuckled behind her, setting his bag near the couch before stretching his arms over his head with a yawn. “To be fair, he was only here for a day. Less than that, actually.”
“Oh my god, that’s worse,” Uraraka groaned, burying her face in a pillow. “This is like when I missed the Ryukyu pop-up stand by four hours in second year. I still think about that.”
Bakugo rolled his eyes. “He wasn’t that cool.”
But he wasn’t really paying attention to her, he was watching Kirishima.
Not in a weird way, just carefully. Observing. Looking for any trace of disappointment. He hadn’t missed how bright his eyes had been yesterday. He half expected some flicker of sadness, now that he was back to just plain-old, emotionally repressed, currently not married Bakugo.
But Kirishima just looked relaxed, a little tired, maybe, but content. He plopped down on the other side of the couch, grinning like the day had gone exactly how it was supposed to.
“You doing okay?” He asked softly, voice low enough that only Bakugo would hear.
Bakugo glanced at him, nodded once.
Kirishima bumped their shoulders together gently.
He didn’t know why the words came out, maybe it was the way Kirishima looked so calm now, legs stretched out in front of him, gaze flicking through the room like it all made perfect sense, like nothing was missing.
“Aren’t you sad that he’s gone?” Bakugo asked, trying to keep his voice even, like it wasn’t a question that had been pressing itself into his ribs since the second that gold ring caught the light.
Kirishima turned his head, blinked once, then smiled.
“Why would I be?” He said. “I have you right now.”
Bakugo’s throat went tight.
“And future me?” Kirishima added with a small shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “He’ll have future you, so there's no reason to be sad.”
And fuck.
He swallowed hard, shifting slightly to hide the way his hands curled into the couch cushions. His voice came out low, a bit shaky, “You say that like it’s easy.”
Kirishima looked at him then, eyes soft and clear in the morning light. “It is when it’s you.”
And Bakugo didn’t know what to do with that.
Didn’t know how to sit with it, how to not fall apart under the weight of how much he loved him. How much he would love him. How that love didn’t end, not even sixteen years from now, so he just nodded, once, eyes cast toward the window, hiding the shake in his chest behind the slow inhale of air.
One day, he thought.
One day, he was going to slide a gold ring onto that boy’s hand, and it was going to have B.K. on the inside.
And with his heart still pounding, kept looking at the light slipping in through the window and thought, I’ll get us there.